


A Study In Contrasts

by arlathahn



Series: A Tale of Twos [1]
Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Betty Cooper figures out her life one milkshake at a time, Courting via food, F/M, Gen, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Is there any other way, Missing moments in season one, Pre-Episode: S1E6, The previously untold story of Betty Cooper appreciating Jughead Jones, The thirst is real
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-25
Updated: 2017-06-25
Packaged: 2018-11-19 00:13:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11301738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arlathahn/pseuds/arlathahn
Summary: Betty Cooper can divide her life into two distinct parts: there’s before Archie, and there’s after Archie.And buried somewhere in between, there’s Jughead Jones.





	A Study In Contrasts

**Author's Note:**

> It's my birthday in two weeks. I'll be turning twenty-five years old. How do I spend my last few days at a twenty-four year old, you ask? By writing high school fic, of course.
> 
> I'm so cool. 
> 
> [Disclaimer: I have not read the comics. I know of them, I've done a little research on them (i.e. read the Wikipedia article), and I fully support asexual Jughead. But since no one asked my opinion, here's 7k of Betty Cooper coming to adore Jughead Jones. Any remaining thoughts and opinions are all yours, my friend. The floor, as they say, is yours.]

  

 

 

> _Oh, I didn't think I was like this_  
>  _But I like this_
> 
> _Oh, you never know babe_  
>  _You never know just what you've done when you come into my life_
> 
> _-Emily Afton, Lost_  

 

* * *

 

The thing is, Betty’s feeling a little reckless.

Since Veronica came to town, since Archie couldn’t love her the way she wanted, since Jughead threw himself into recording the town hijinks, and one mysterious hijink in particular, Betty finds herself craving _more_. Her pipe dream has become just that, and in its place a new kind of reality has taken hold, a whole new realm of possibility at her fingertips and all she needs to decide is _where_ and _when_. It’s a little terrifying, a little uncomfortable, but also freeing in a newly minted sort of way. There’s a certain unpredictability to Riverdale that simply didn’t, simply _couldn’t_ , exist one week ago: the curtain has been unveiled and in its stead there are murders and secrets and plots and heartache, but also, there’s this.

There’s a fresh start.

Sure, she’s heartbroken, if you can call it such a thing. She’s not even sure if she truly believed Archie was her soulmate or if she simply loved the idea of him so fiercely it covered up everything else. Covered up that they were away from each other for three months, covered up the seductive appearance of one Veronica Lodge, covered up the fact that maybe she never knew her best friend at all, or at least, not the way she thought she did.

It’s all so _much_ , the secrets and the cover-ups and the controversy, but if there’s one thing Betty Cooper has learned from her mother, it’s how to swim, not sink. She will not drown in the face of this chaos, she will face the storm head on and she will bear it with a smile. She’s already joined the Vixens, already been rejected, already witnessed the crime of the small-town century, what more could happen? What other adventures lay buried, waiting to be uncovered?

It’s more terrifying than exciting, she knows, but her heart still hammers away anyway, the idea taking root in her mind, her body fidgeting with nerves as thought becomes plan, and plan becomes action. The Betty Cooper from Before would never have conjured up something as reckless and brazen as this, but this is a new era. She doesn’t know what, precisely, has ended to make way for this newfound piece, but she doesn’t dwell on it now. Better to focus on the future. Better to move on.

But she is still the Betty Cooper from Before, at least in part, so first things first she does what she does best: tightens her perfect ponytail, writes the plan in neat, cursive penmanship and _thinks_.

 

* * *

 

The plan leads her to Jughead Jones.

It’s not surprising, not really, and it doesn't take much ingenious thinking to connect the dots. Betty Cooper wants to know what’s happening in Riverdale. Who always knows what’s happening in Riverdale? Jughead Jones the Third.

How to reach out to him though, that’s the trickier part.

She has his phone number, the same way everyone in Riverdale has everyone’s phone number. Even if you don’t use it, you have it, because that’s just how small towns work. So communication is not the problem. The problem is how _to_ communicate.

Because, the thing about Jughead is, it has to be interesting. The bait needs to entice him, first of all, but also keep him coming back, to work _with_ her, not for her and not for himself, either. They need to be together on this, but she doesn’t know how to catch his interest and lay down some guidelines at the same time without sounding like Alice Cooper.

For a moment she’s half tempted to ask Veronica for advice, but then, that isn’t the kind of _enticing_ she means. Jughead is his own personal brand of dictionary, and Betty is just now beginning to figure out she doesn’t really know the definition.

She knows about him, certainly. Knows what food he likes, knows which places he frequents, knows his sarcastic brand of humor, knows what that spiky raven hair looked like when they were five. She _knows_ Jughead Jones just fine, but the things she knows about him are the same things she shares with literally _every single person_ in this town. Like the phone numbers, everyone knows the basic facts about everyone, but only a select few know the real deal and _that_ is exactly what Betty needs right now: advice on how to reach the unreachable.

So Veronica’s out.

There’s Archie, maybe, except for how he bailed on his and Jughead’s summer road trip and things haven’t been the same since. Betty hadn’t asked, and it's none of her business really, but even if she hadn't been half-stalking Archie's life before the epic disaster at the dance last weekend she'd have to be blind not to notice Jughead's withdrawal from Archie's life. He's been even more reclusive than usual, a feat in and of itself, and no one really knows what’s going on there, least of all, she suspects, Archie himself. Jughead is more or less an open book when he wants to be, but it’s always on his terms, always when he wants his own hand to be revealed and not a moment sooner. It’s clear, then, his reluctance to visit the Andrews household is more than a simple grudge.

No, Betty suspects, it’s something more along the lines of hurt.

That’s something new, something she’s never heard or seen from the likes of Jughead before, but then, maybe none of them have. Hurt is a newcomer to Riverdale, an ace of spades, a wildcard, and no one, from Cheryl Blossom to Jughead Jones is acting within the bounds of their once predisposed character roles.

But then, it occurs to Betty, she’s just told her mother how sick she is of being perfect, of fitting into the same character mold as the people she’s thinking about, so maybe she should stop overthinking and simply be herself, whoever that is. Maybe it will be enough. If there’s one thing she knows Jughead appreciates, it’s authenticity. He revels breaking the mold to find the cold, hard truth underneath, and that’s something Betty never understood before, but something she is actively seeking now.  
  
She just doesn’t quite know how to _start_.

In the end, she sends a text after pacing her room for twenty minutes, questioning everything from the sentence structure to whether an emoji should follow the last period. It’s incredibly frustrating, how _difficult_ this is, to send a simple text message to a boy she’s known practically her whole life, it’s just—it’s completely different from Archie. Everything with Archie was easy, and now it’s like she’s flipped to the other side of the spectrum, trading the all American boy for the mysterious loner friend and it’s a terrifying risk that makes her manicured fingers shake when she finally presses send.

_I have a proposition for you. Meet me at the Blue & Gold office tomorrow morning, 7:30a. _

_Bring your laptop._

She reads and re-reads it over and over, only satiated on her third read-through when she finds no spelling errors. She tells herself the only reason she’s paranoid is because Jughead’s something of a wordsmith himself, nothing more. This has nothing to do with Archie, or nerves. She’s just…excited. To get this all underway.

She’s lays back on her bed and breathes out a sigh, steadfastly ignoring the curtain in the middle of her bedroom, ignoring the vague sense of unease curling in her belly. This is the first adventure she’s embarked on without her childhood best friend, or worse, because of him.

She’s not even sure what she expects to happen. It’s not as though she and Jughead exchange messages on a daily or even frequent basis. Their impromptu hangout at the diner two days ago was more a product of good timing and present company than anything else, so it’s not as though she has a reliable history to compare notes to or draw comfort from.

Her phone pings.

_Bring breakfast and you’ve got yourself a deal._

The laugh that bursts out of her is both a surprise and a relief. It’s oddly reassuring, to know some things in Riverdale haven’t changed, that some things stay the same. Jughead still loves food as much as he loves a good mystery, and Betty, well. Betty may have just acquired a new partner to solve crimes with.

It doesn’t take twenty minutes to respond this time. No, it takes all of three seconds to type a response and hit send, excitement flooding her veins.

_Deal_. :)

 

* * *

 

It goes to shit, because of course it does.

Betty has always been a bit of a mess when it comes to Polly, always felt bereft when it came to her sister’s sudden and dramatic disappearance from her life. She doesn’t mean to get sidetracked from the paper, from the investigation, from Jughead, but she does anyway and boy, does she regret it.

The wonderful thing about Jughead though, is that he doesn’t go where he’s not wanted. He doesn’t push, doesn’t question, doesn’t pester. Veronica keeps staring when she thinks Betty isn’t looking, conflicted glances that claw guilt straight into her palms via moon crested fingernails. She doesn’t blame Veronica for her worry, and she doesn’t blame Cheryl for her dead brother’s part in the playbook either, but Betty still feels on edge, ready to fight or blow or _something_ at a moment’s notice and she doesn’t know what to do, with any of it.

And then Dilton Doiley tells her and Jughead that Miss Grundy’s car was at Sweet Water River fourth of July weekend and isn’t that ironic? What a small world, that Miss Grundy and Archie Andrews would be in the woods at the same time, on the same day?

When she spots the two of them plus Fred Andrews in Pop’s, her blood damn near boils for the second time in two weeks.

She confronts him, because she’s Betty Cooper, daughter of Alice Cooper, and crazy runs in the family, right? Confrontation runs in the family, doesn’t it? The slices along her palms, digging beneath her skin, are those genetic, too? She wants to yell at him, blame him for every single piece. Everything started when he stayed, when he lied, when he cheated and now they’re here, on two different sections of pavement but it might as well be a whole other continent. Betty Cooper looks Archie Andrews in the eye and she sees a stranger. She looks at him and she wonders how she could ever have been in love with him when she didn’t know him at all.

She can feel his eyes on her when she leaves, but she doesn’t look back. Her hands curl into fists so tight her eyes sting and a single drop of blood spills onto the sidewalk.

Precisely one hand washing and one Alice Cooper grounding later, Betty lays on her bed, stares at the ceiling and tries so very hard to sleep. But instead of sleep she has questions, and instead of a friend she has silence and instead of Archie she has an ache for her sister so fierce she can hardly feel anything at all. She wipes tears from her eyes, feeling uglier and lonelier than ever but she can’t let _go_ , she just can’t.

Her phone lights up, a quick buzz from the bedside table and part of her doesn’t even want to know. It’ll be Archie’s name on the screen, she thinks, begging her forgiveness, begging her company like before. She looks anyway, just so she can roll her eyes when she proves herself right.

Except it’s not Archie’s name on the screen, but Jughead’s. Betty unlocks her phone in a too-quick fumble of hands.

_Everyone has secrets_.

Short and sweet, so very Jughead but also so very not Jughead at all. She’s not sure how she should interpret the message, unsure if it’s a comfort or a question or, knowing Jughead, a bit of both. Still, it feels like an olive branch of sorts, an invitation without the invite, except…she doesn’t really want to talk about Archie right now. She doesn’t really want to think about him at all, when she can think about Jughead instead. Jughead who didn’t have an affair with a teacher, who didn’t dump her, who didn’t lie about what he did last summer.

_What’s yours?_

_To be discussed._

She smiles through her tears, despite herself.

_Promise?_

She doesn’t even know what she’s asking for. This is how pathetic she’s become, how low she’s fallen: a vague, helpless plea to Jughead Jones via satellite.

_Cross my heart._

She sighs, turn over on her side to better hide underneath the comforter.

_How long have you known?_

_Not long._ There’s a pause, then a second message joins the first. _Put it together last week. Confronted him about it_.

The news shouldn’t surprise her. Of course she wasn’t the first one to confront Archie about this, of course Jughead would do the same. It shouldn’t surprise her but it does, and brings a whole new perspective to his not joining her and Veronica outside the diner tonight. She hadn’t put much thought to it at the time. She simply chalked it up to his loner tendencies and refocused her irritation elsewhere, but now—now she realizes how wrong she was, to assume such a thing.

_It’s a stupid thing to be upset about, isn’t it? Compared to everything else?_

_Nah. Your feelings are valid, Betty. Archie’s an idiot._

She blinks, then blinks again, staring at the message like it might evaporate if she lets go. It sounds like a double meaning, it sounds like he’s saying—

Her heart hammers as she types out a reply, thumb hovering over _send_.

_You think?_

It’s so desperate, so ridiculously, stupidly desperate she might as well be holding up a damn neon sign that says “Love me, I’m lonely” but she just…can’t, right now. She doesn’t have the energy to banter, or read into things, or wonder what anything means. But then, Jughead has never been anything less than forthright, so maybe she doesn’t have to. Maybe there’s nothing to overthink. Maybe it just…is.

_Absolutely_.

She laughs into her pillow, wipes her sadness on her sleeve. She cocoons herself in her too pink room, with her too bright phone. She smiles.

If someone would have asked her a month ago, Betty would never have believed it, but Jughead Jones is surprisingly good at cheering her up. Deep down she knows Archie doesn’t deserve all her anger. Deep down she knows this is bigger than heartbreak, bigger than Grundy. She’s still upset about Chuck and Polly and Jason and it’s not all Archie’s fault. She knows. It’s just that, sometimes it’s easier to blame someone you thought you knew, when they do something you hate. Sometimes you lash out at one thing, when it’s actually everything.

Deep down, she knows it wasn’t just before Archie and after, knows it’s unfair to tie her life to his when it was never really tied to begin with. This change has been in motion for too long, perhaps even longer than any of them realize, but it’s easier, sometimes, to pretend. Pretend the world doesn’t exist, just one other person. Pretend it’s someone else’s fault, so you don’t have to blame yourself.

Pretend someone’s thinking of you, even if they aren’t.

The Betty Cooper from Before would write this all down in her diary and pick it apart, dissect it. She would ponder over its meaning, contemplate it for days. She would dream about it, even, a distant sort of dream that she would know, deep down, could never come true.

_Thank you_.  <3

Betty Cooper does not write in her dairy tonight. She spares her pencils, spares her thoughts, spares her secrets. Tonight she writes Jughead Jones instead, two simple little words and finds that’s all she needs.

It's all she needs.

 

* * *

 

The next week, Betty tells herself, is a fresh start.

After the catastrophic disasters named Chuck Clayton and Miss Grundy, things start to mellow around Riverdale High. People are still talking in that whispered way of theirs that means Things have happened and gossip is most certainly at an all time high, but for Betty Cooper things have mellowed and that, _that_ is good news.

She still feels a touch guilty, for everything. If she hadn’t been recording every little thing that happened with Archie, if her mother hadn’t put away her laundry that exact day, Miss Grundy wouldn’t have disappeared and Archie wouldn't be searching for another music teacher and none of this would be quite so _complicated_.

Though, Jughead assures her when she walks into the Blue & Gold, it would’ve actually been more complicated.

“Idiot, remember?” he chides her, rolling his eyes.

He also brings her breakfast, a surprise move that ends with her giving him a half-awkward hug, arms too high on his shoulders, bumping his beanie. He reciprocates after a brief pause, for a split second before shame stains her cheeks and she backs away, chuckling awkwardly. The fact that his hands _did_ touch her waist and that _is_ the definition of reciprocating is the only thing that makes the entire debacle less embarrassing.

“I’ve never known you to share food,” she jokes, a lame attempt at levity.

“Oh, I don’t,” he replies immediately, and her eyebrows rise.

“This isn’t sharing,” he clarifies, “this is giving. I don’t share.”

“Uh-huh,” her voice is thick with sarcasm as she looks him up and down, appraising. He gives her a side-eye in return, a challenge if she’s ever seen one, and it makes her smile turn sardonic.

“Careful, Juggie. I’ll start thinking you’re sweet.”

He scoffs, flicks a dark curl away from his face. Arms crossed, he levels her with his impressive full height, looming over her with a gaze so direct her toes curl.

“Don't tell anyone.”

If this is his secret, Betty thinks it's a pretty good one.

 

* * *

 

Things go back to normal after that. Or rather, they become the new version of normal.

Instead of Archie and Betty, there’s Veronica and Betty. Instead of Archie and Grundy, there’s Archie and Jughead. And sprinkled a few odd days in between, there are days when it’s Betty and Jughead, or Veronica and Archie. They swap friends like flavors of milkshakes, but at the end of the day, Betty thinks, everyone still has a preference.

It comes to a head one innocuous Wednesday evening, the day before Jason Blossom’s funeral. Betty walks into the corner booth of Pop's and there's a space beside each boy, Archie or Jughead, like a giant question mark and a table in between. It's a metaphor for her life somehow, she's sure of it.

Archie’s laughing as he regales some story, a story Betty has probably heard already—or maybe not, since she's been so busy with the murder investigation and they don’t talk as often anymore. He doesn't look up just yet, keen on describing the penultimate peril at football practice, and that is the moment she hesitates a second too long, unsure of her footing and her loyalty.

Jughead stays focused, good listener that he is, but even so he seems acutely aware of Betty's existential crisis. His eyes swivel her way for a handful of seconds, nothing too long to suggest he's not paying attention to Archie, but long enough to take distinct _notice_ , amusement dancing in his eyes before they land on the seat next to him in a wordless invitation.

She's not sure who she surprises more, herself or Jughead, when she accepts.

“Betty!” Archie grins, the perfect image of all American everything that it almost grates on her nerves for half a second before she gets a grip on herself. “What gives? My side of the table not good enough anymore?”

Jughead is already talking before she can think up a clever retort, jacket-clad elbow resting against the table in a suave James Dean-esque gesture. “I'm training her. The sardonic ways, I like to call it. Work in progress, but she's bright—she'll go far.”

Betty rolls her eyes. “It's a booth, not a turf war. Besides,” she adds with a shrug of pink cardigan-laden shoulder, “this way I can look at you, Archie.”

It's stupidly sweet, something the Betty from Before would say, but it comes out more like a joke, now. Sure enough, Jughead snorts like this is the height of fairytale teenage romance, and somewhere deep down she agrees, it's horribly cliché. Archie's brown eyes dart between them for half a second, his open face betraying the question held there, but Betty isn't in the mood to be scrutinized, much less by Archie Andrews. She acts without thinking, anything to break the non-moment attempting to solidify into something real and awkward, stealing a fry off Jughead's half-eaten plate.

It's a horrible impulse, one she'll berate herself for later. For someone who's trying to liven up a bit, her quick thinking reflex need some serious work. Maybe she should ask for Jughead for some advice after all, he's always good with a quick word or a subject change. The best, even. To her surprise though, Jughead more or less seems to go with her horrible attempt at levity. If “go with it” means he taps her hand away the whole time she's bringing the stolen fry to her mouth, ending with his relent in the form of a single, heaving put-upon sigh.

“I'm booting you out,” he says, eyes level with hers. “See if I let you sit beside me next time.”

“I didn't realize I needed your permission, Juggie.”

She mostly means it as a joke, a gentle ribbing between – friends? – but Jughead's eyes glint with something like respect, something like trouble, and he smirks, just slightly, just enough that his face morphs from mocking offense to...something else.

“You caught me, Cooper. I must keep up a front so no one steals my food. I only share with a select few, see.”

And if _that_ isn't the biggest double entendre of the century, she doesn't know what is. She raises an eyebrow in question.

“Oh? And how can I improve my chances, hmm? Of making the cut?”

Jughead's head slips upward, almost a nod except for how it doesn't drop back down, just up in a smooth, fluid motion until his face is illuminated with blue-purple streaks of neon from the sign outside, a striking contrast against the curl of raven hair peeking out of his beanie. It is most certainly an _image,_ and Betty’s not _blind._ He looks, well. He looks the epitome of cool, is what and he’s not even trying. There’s a classic bad boy James Dean glow about him that’s tantalizing in a very Jughead, very specific way she’s never noticed before, but that’s not quite right, either. It’s not unnoticed so much as never outright acknowledged, before now. It’s like he’s an entirely different person, except for how he’s not so different at all—her perspective is the one that’s changed. The Jughead sitting beside her is someone confident and teasing, someone wrapping her around his finger and she's at a loss, unsure of the rules here, if there are any rules at all.

Worse, she’s not sure she actually _minds_.

“You already had one, didn't you?” The left corner of his mouth curls. “I'd say you're doing just fine.”

“Okay, I'm confused.”

_Shit_ , she'd almost forgotten—and when was the last time she'd _forgotten_ Archie Andrews? Betty clears her throat in an attempt to get a grip for the third time this evening, or at least get herself to focus on more than one person in the room and it's strange because it doesn't _feel_ like she wasn't paying attention, or that anything needs...refocusing, exactly, but she also feels disoriented in a way she can't explain. Like she just snapped out of a haze, but it wasn't a bad haze it was just—distracting.

“Did you two just banter? Are you two...friends? Now?” Archie's eyebrows are steadily growing towards his hairline and it shouldn't be _that_ surprising, should it? She and Jughead have talked in front of Archie before, surely.

Hadn't they?  
  
She chances a low look toward Jughead's elbow and, in her peripheral, notes the curl near his right dimple hasn't disappeared at all. He gives her one of his signature side-eye looks, catching her eyeline in a _gotchya_ smirk that she hates, damn him.

“Sardonic ways, remember Archie? Honestly, keep up.”

There's a beat of silence in which Betty studiously memorizes the gold glitter engrained in the diner tabletop and does not look up to the perplexed, vaguely betrayed expression she knows is waiting on Archie's face. It's...not very good of her, maybe, to leave that expression hanging, but a smaller part of her, a maybe bigger than “small” part sort of relishes in being a part of something that doesn't belong to the boy next door. She’s part of a secret society now, party of two. It's just a french fry, just a smile, just a simple moment of playful banter, but it's also...

Something.

Archie mumbles a low “right, yeah” under his breath and the moment passes. Veronica joins them a few minutes of stilted conversation later, insisting it's a “Strawberry shake kind of night, right, Archiekins?” and Betty loves her for it, for soaking up the Archie limelight so she can finally breathe. Once upon a time she might have been disappointed, maybe even jealous, but precisely one month to the day she finds herself sneaking glances at the boy lingering at her elbow instead, wondering what his story is, wondering if he ever writes it down the way she keeps a diary under her pillow.

Halfway through their strawberry flavored, whipped cream topped goodness, Jughead nudges her elbow just slightly, but he doesn’t try to capture her attention outright and he doesn't pull away, either. It's a small enough gesture, and you could blame just about any hint of proximity on the small booth they're engulfed in, but Betty knows better. Jughead Jones doesn't do things on accident, and he's most certainly aware of his elbow's current encroachment beside hers.

She doesn't look at him, he doesn't look at her, and the moment passes like the banter from earlier just infinitely smoother. The change is hardly even noticeable except for how Betty is hyper-aware of something as ridiculous as an _elbow,_ but that doesn't mean she's going to shift her posture anytime soon, either.

All in all it's the first good night in a long time, and if Betty smiles down at the golden flecks in the white tabletop more than usual, well, no one needs to know.

But just one might be able to tell.

 

* * *

 

It becomes a thing, of sorts.

She’s not going to say she goes out of her way to snatch an extra bag of chips in the lunch line or anything. That would be a touch too desperate, even for her. It’s more like, she wouldn’t have eaten the full bag herself anyway, would have bundled them up and fully intended to save them for a rainy day and inevitably forgotten about them in the black hole of her school backpack. So she saves her shoulder some extra weight and shares her extras with Jughead. It’s a win, win. Simple.

And if it makes his eyes light up in ridiculous ways – how someone can love food so genuinely is beyond her – and makes her own eyes roll in something dangerously close to fond affection well, maybe that isn’t so bad, either.

It’s a lousy attempt of an excuse, and she’s fooling absolutely no one, not herself and most certainly not Jughead, who seems to use the food scraps as an excuse himself, to be by her side every lunch period. The Betty from Before might have made a joke about his behavior being like a dog with a bell, but the Betty now knows better, knows what the creases under his eyes mean, knows the joke, no matter how harmless, is anything but funny.

It surprises her then, a handful of days after the unofficial sharing becomes a Thing, after the others go to class and Betty is re-packing her schoolbag sans chips, Jughead lingers a beat longer than normal, no chips or laptop in sight. She’s about to inquire whether the food was stale today, or the investigating extra dull, when he speaks.

“Hey, I talked to a nurse in the office, asked around about Polly, see if anyone heard or saw anything. Anyway, I wondered if—if you’d like to meet at Pop’s tonight, to go over it.” He’s mysteriously not meeting her eyes, an uncharacteristic gesture if she’s ever seen one. “Also, I owe you. For the snacks.”

“Nonsense,” she replies on autopilot, a sunny smile joining it shortly thereafter. It’s only after a couple seconds pass that she realizes how rude she just sounded, if what Jughead is hinting at is what Jughead is hinting at.

“But um,” she tucks a nonexistent blonde curl behind her ear, stupidly nervous for no reason she can determine. “That sounds nice.”

Jughead’s returning grin is small, so small, but also so rare and so precious Betty feels her shoulders growing taller on instinct, arching toward him like a flower basking in the sun and _god_ , when did she become such an cliché?

“Great,” he says, and smiles down at his boots.

“Great,” she repeats, feeling drunk and silly and every little thing in between.

“So, seven?”

“Seven.”

With that, he turns and walks away, leaving her to her thoughts. She watches him walk to class, watches his back and the curve of his shoulder in his dark jean jacket before she realizes she has exactly three minutes to make it to biology and it’s on the complete other side of the building.

That night, at 7:05pm, Jughead Jones buys her a strawberry milkshake with extra whip cream and listens to her talk about Alice, about Polly, about Veronica and cheerleading and every little thing in between. He nods in all the right places, comforts in others. He listens so ardently and more than that, understands.

It’s the most honest conversation she’s had in weeks that doesn’t feel horribly one-sided, and she revels in the sincerity of it all, in the intense spark of light in those blue hazel eyes as they take her measure.

It’s only after she’s home, in bed, without having glanced out her window once that she realizes tonight was the first night she didn’t think of Betty Cooper from Before at all, not once. She didn’t pick her answers just so, to be politically correct. She was polite, she didn’t upset, she was everything she so naturally _is_ , but the point is she didn’t try, either. There was no calculation to her performance, no character to uphold, no enigma to present to the boy across the booth. She doesn’t know which version of Betty Cooper that makes her, the before Archie or the after, but either way she likes how content she feels, how wonderfully, simplistically spent. She feels free to be herself, she feels she has time to figure it out, she feels she has someone who maybe, sort of, gets her.

The girl who went to the diner tonight is still something of a mystery, and so is the boy who sat across from it, but for the first time since last summer, Betty finds she’s excited to find out.

 

* * *

 

The following evening Betty Cooper does something she’s never done before.

She climbs down the ladder outside her window.

She finds him in Pop's, of course she does. Elbows bent, digits flexed as the sound of fingers on plastic fills the diner and an overwhelming dose of nostalgia warms her bones. She’s heard this same sound, seen this same scene a hundred times before, but it feels like the first time, it feels distinctly new. Maybe that’s what slows her step to a near halt, maybe that’s what speeds her heart up to near dangerous levels. Or maybe it’s just _him_.

He’s taken the beanie off, and it’s almost like a piece of armor has been taken off with it. Betty looks at Jughead Jones and sees, not for the first time, an entirely new person. She sees a boy with dark hair, darker than Archie’s, she sees slight curls at the edges where Archie had none. She sees fine cheekbones and full lips and it’s nothing at all she’s used to, but something she appreciates just the same. She prefers this version over the dream she once had from behind closed curtains and maybe it’s as simple as that: maybe she prefers that it’s not a dream. The boy in front of her with a determined glint in his eye and a coffee stain on his right sleeve is wholly, completely real.

It makes the scene in front of her that much more domestic, that much sweeter. It makes something in her swell with affection to see him like this, real and off guard and vulnerable.

He must reach the end of the section he’s working on; his right arm stretches in a smooth arc to snatch the coffee at his elbow, eyes narrowed and throat working as he scrutinizes the screen. He finishes his appraisal the same time the cup lands back on the table and it’s all so—orchestrated that it occurs to Betty this is his ritual. _This_ is a regular Tuesday night for Jughead Jones: Pop’s, coffee, and his story.

She’s dying to read it.

As if on cue, his eyes snap up to meet hers and any other time she might enjoy the momentary disbelief making his eyes widen, but now it just makes her sad. She wanted to surprise him, yes, wanted to be someone different, someone daring and confident, but she doesn’t want it to be a surprise that she picked _him_ to see on this new adventure. She doesn’t want disbelief etched in a single line across his brow, a question in his gaze as he looks her up and down, searching for clues.

“Betty,” he says, and his voice cracks a little. Whether from surprise or disuse, she can’t tell.

“Hey.” She twists her hands together, stares at the tiled floor, nervous. “Sorry to…” she gestures wildly, “infringe. I wasn’t thinking and I should have—I should have texted instead of…this.”

She trails off, feels her cheeks flush the same color as the ridiculous red flats on her feet. Who wears flats when they sneak out of the house? Betty Cooper, that’s who.

“No! No, it’s fine I was just—”

“Surprised?” She smiles.

“Writing,” he retorts, but that right dimple looks to be making an appearance soon. “But yes, surprised too.”

There’s a moment then, where they stare at each in other in half-awkward silence, Jughead leaning half in, half out of the booth looking like he doesn’t know what to do with his hands and Betty alternating glances between her shoes and the boy in front of her, caught in a stalemate before Jughead recovers first because he always does.

“Would you—” he clears his throat. “Would you like to sit?”

Betty giggles, just once, because it’s a ridiculous question. It’s not, except that it _is_ : they’ve known each other practically their entire lives, and any other time they would join the booth next to the other no questions asked, but this time, this time it’s different and it’s nerve-wracking and it’s awkward and Betty loves it. She _loves_ it.

She loves that she’s on an adventure, _finally_ , loves that Archie is blocks away, asleep and in bed and she’s here, with Jughead, seeking him out and facing her fears. She loves that she feels awkward and clumsy, flushed and warm, loves that she doesn’t know how to act, what to wear, where to look. She doesn’t have a single clue and it’s glorious, it’s wonderfully, fantastically _uncoordinated_ and she revels in it, basks in the stolen glances and the awkward questions and the terrible red flats on her feet.

She is no one she has ever been before and it’s _wonderful_.

“Actually, I was wondering,” she swivels a little, the cream skirt at her knees sashaying with the movement, “would you like to…read me your story?”

His eyes, when the meet hers, take on an expression she’s never seen before but acutely recognizes, thanks to her mother. It’s a mixture of hope and despair, a storm cloud of emotions warring out on his face, and she wants to take it back, to ease the pain, except she doesn’t think her invitation is the problem. The problem, she thinks, is whether the offer is _real_ , because how can it be, when no one ever asks? Everyone glosses over Jughead Jones just like Betty did, before, and for what? Why?  
  
But things are different now. _She’s_ different, and she will never overlook Jughead Jones again.

He wars with himself for a few seconds longer, but when his eyes meet hers again, they’re calm. Focused. Sincere.

“Okay,” he says, and her heart sings.

 

* * *

 

“It’s good,” she says, when she’s finished. “It’s _really_ good, Juggie.”

“Thanks,” he says, head hanging just a bit, the picture of bashful enthusiasm. A single curl of hair falls into his left eye and for a moment, he looks just like someone out of the films he adores. He looks like a movie star and it does things to her, things she thought she knew about but is just now realizing she didn’t have a damn clue. He looks at her under the cover of raven hair and Betty thinks her mother is right, she is in trouble.

“I mean it!” she says instead, with a bit too much cheer. “It’s factual, but larger than life. It’s relatable, but centered in facts. It’s the perfect exposé on our town, on what’s happened, and it’s—it’s _really_ good. You should be published.”

“Whoa, now,” he holds up his hands in a placating gesture. “Delusions of grandeur are not really my style.”

She gives him a _look_ , a patented Betty Cooper looks that says _try me_. They stare each other down for all of three seconds before their composure fractures and the chuckles break through, shit-eating grins plastered on both their faces. She watches his smirk wane to something more relaxed, something comfortable and Betty grins. Mission accomplished.

“Seriously, though. It’s really good. Way better than anything I could do.”

His smile flickers then, not dimmed, but something more distinct traces the corner of his lips.

“Don’t sell yourself short, Betts.”

She blinks once, surprised at the nickname and the vehemence in his tone. She’s been called variations of her name her whole life, of course. Usually by Archie, sometimes by Veronica, but she’s can’t remember a time Jughead did the same. Or maybe she just didn’t notice, before.  
  
Maybe she didn’t notice a lot of things.

“So,” she says, aiming for casual and missing the mark by a mile. “Would you like to—” she falters, unsure of how to ask for what she wants. Jughead raises an eyebrow like he knows what she's trying to say but is going to make her suffer anyway. She hates him, a little.

“Get out of here?” There’s an extra lilt at the end, an overcompensation of vowels making her voice squeak.

She’s a mess.

Thankfully Jughead just chuckles, that damn piece of hair falling into his eyes again. It’s just as distracting the second time around.

“You know, you’re kind of terrible at this.”

Her eyes widen, taken aback. “At what?”

“ _This_.” He gestures at the booth, the diner, herself. “Sneaking out, meeting me, inviting me on your grand late-night adventure. It’s cute.”

It’s a preposterous insult if she’s ever heard one, but the glimmer in his eye gives her pause. He’s smirking at her with such intensity, such warmth like she’s the only girl in the room, which, to be fair she _is_ , but she feels—she feels the most important, somehow. She feels like even if Veronica Lodge or Cheryl Blossom came into this same diner and offered the exact same thing, he’s say no.

Like she’s the only one worth saying yes to.

“Well,” she says, jutting her chin out, blonde hair bouncing at the back of her neck, “so long as it works.”

The smirk deepens, the dimple she’s become so fond of lately appearing at long last. He’s a different person here, yes, but it’s a person she could get used to, a person she’s eager to understand. With one hand propped on the booth behind him, one on the table absently playing with what remains of his coffee, a dangerous gleam in his eyes and a lopsided smile on his lips, he’s a person who should come with a warning sign.

“Like I said, don’t sell yourself short.”

 

* * *

 

It’s on their way out that she remembers. 

She whirls around, knocking straight into him with the flurry of motion and he takes a step back, right hand hovering near her waist. Any other time she’d be distracted by that, but right now she has something to say. Right now he needs to know.

“You’re wrong about one thing.”

She expects surprise at the seemingly random statement, expects confusion or even mild irritation, expects anything but the reaction she receives, which is mild amusement.

“What’s that?”

“There were four people in the booth that night. Not three.”

Jughead goes still beside her, holding the door with his left arm so she can pass through. And she feels that same sadness, that same sorrow she felt when he first laid eyes on her tonight, because Jughead, he shouldn’t be _sad_ that she notices these things about him. It shouldn’t be surprising that she picked him over Archie tonight. It shouldn’t be surprising that she picked apart that line and corrected his insecurity. It shouldn’t be surprising but it _is_ , at least to him and she just—she wants to—

He clears his throat. “Thanks,” he says, but it’s stilted.

“Hey,” she says, quiet. She doesn’t care that they’re still standing in the entryway to Pop’s, that there may be a straggler or two staring, wondering why the door is open but no one’s leaving. She rests a hand on his shoulder, body blocking the doorway, not letting him go. She catches his eye the way he always catches hers, gives him the full effect of her large, light eyes.

“I mean it.” She can be stubborn, too.

His grip on the door tightens before adjusting his hold, the door swinging with the motion, forward then back. To a passerby his posture might looked relaxed, might look purposeful, but Betty knows better. Betty knows this is personal, knows he keeps these parts of himself locked away with good reason, knows this _means_ something.

He means something.

The silence that follows is near heartbreaking. His eyes are hard, flickering down, then up, then down again before the tension in his body lifts, something inside of him letting go and he's back to the Jughead she knows. His eyes, when they find hers, are softer than she's ever seen them before and maybe he's changed, too.

He doesn't say anything and she doesn't either, leading him into the night with nothing more than a small smile and a gentle hand on his elbow. There's a moment just before he steps off the threshold, a moment that's charged with electricity and sheer, unbridled want and she longs to lean forward those precious few inches and take it, own it, taste it.

She wonders if she could.

The Betty from Before would never have contemplated such a thing. The Betty from Before would never have stepped outside her window, would never have sought out Jughead Jones, never invited him out, never flirted with him. She wouldn’t have done any of it, and maybe that version of herself would be safer, in a way. Maybe this version shouldn’t be out at eleven o’clock on the school night, with a boy her mother warned her about. Maybe there's a reason it's against the rules.

But then, the Betty from Before was so sad and lonely, so sick of waiting and the thing is, she doesn’t have to anymore. Now she can seek out what _she_ wants, and maybe what she wants frequents a corner booth of Pops, maybe what she wants looks good in a dark denim jacket and some gel in his hair. Maybe what she wants is simply this:

Staring at the sky, the constellations shining. Jughead’s body close to hers, hands and arms and shoulders brushing as they walk close, too close to be considered appropriate. Goosebumps rising on her skin, feeling both warm and cold at the same time. Everything quiet, so quiet, save the chirp of nocturnal insects hovering nearby. It's the moment before an exhale, the nerves before the silence is broken, the hesitance before an action. It's a question and Betty finally, _finally_ knows the answer.

So she’s feeling a little reckless.

And she likes it.

 

* * *

 

**Author's Note:**

> Come yell at me about these [losers](http://tatooinelukes.tumblr.com/). (Which is not limited to, but most certainly including, myself. Let's join Jughead's weirdo club, yes?)
> 
> Thanks for reading.


End file.
